Breathless Trains and Worn Down Glories
by pi-on-a-skateboard
Summary: Walking the halls in the dead of night, Wes hears a haunting melody. But why is there singing, and how can Wes help save another of his boys?
1. Pages Were Folded

**Prompt: Lively**

Wes sighed heavily as he trolled the corridors, one hand clenched in his pocket, other kneading both his temples with his thumb and middle finger. One of the few joys of being a senior – and a prefect – was that he was able to just get out and clear his head, no matter the time of day.

Which is really what he needed to do. To say it had been a long day, was like saying Jupiter is a long way from Earth. Long didn't even begin to cover it. He'd run from assessment to Warbler council meeting to class to meeting with the headmaster to make-up assessment after school to LATE Warbler rehearsal to meeting with the boarding masters. By the time he finally got around to eat, it was about 8:30 pm and he'd had to reheat everything in one of the kitchen ovens. When he managed to get to his room – and we're now past 10 on the clock – there was a line of about 5 boys – both Warblers and members of his own house – of varying levels of anxiety needing his advice. He'd finally managed to sit down to work on his Literature essay at a little past midnight – only to discover his head was too crammed to even begin to comprehend how Jay Gatsby did or did not represent the death of the American Dream. Bed was out of the question – so he'd shoved the pen, paper and novel aside, pulled on his softest slippers and glided out the door.

He scuffed his shoes down the corridor, through the foyer, until he came to the house music room. Too often he'd be brought here in the middle of the night. He'd slip inside, sit down at the piano stool, lose himself in thought, clear some from his head. Some nights he'd dampen it with the practise pedal and play _pianissimo_, maybe humming along. Other nights he'd mime playing. Sometimes he'd bring sheet music and work on arranging.

Not tonight. He knew something was off as he crept down the stairs. As he worked his way closer and closer to the door he could hear the gentle hush of the muted piano and a soft voice singing. He stopped at the door, ears pricking.

_My shadow's the only one who walks beside me._

_My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating._

_Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me._

_Till then, I walk alone…_

He wasn't entirely sure who it was. He recognised the voice, of course – Wes knew everyone in his house like the notes on a stave, especially the musicians – but it was too quiet, too… emotional. He considered going in there, trying to help whoever it was out… but it was past midnight. Whoever was there didn't want to be disturbed. Honestly, it sounded like they just needed to vent – and Wes knew from experience not to interrupt. So he slowly turned away and shuffled back upstairs, the echo of the song lulling him into sleep.

The next day, thankfully, was not as busy. He'd pulled together the Warblers, tried talking to each of them to work out who'd been so distraught the night before. He knew it had to be one of his boys – he was kinda psychic when it came to that sort of thing – but they all seemed fine. A couple perhaps a little more tired than usual, but he couldn't really read anything into that – a lot of the guys had stuff going on in their lives, and midterms were coming on top of sectionals preparation.

But it was still bugging him. There were a few there that Wes was worried about – though he didn't really know why. Maybe because he saw people. That was really the only way to describe it. He'd look someone in the eye and could tell exactly what they were feeling, what sort of person they were, how much horror surrounded their past, how strong they were now, how much of a burden they were trying to hide… But he still couldn't work out what it was, or who, or just how badly they needed him.

So that night he again found himself drawn to the piano room, the refrain from last night echoing in his mind, calling him back. And again, he heard that haunting sorrow.

_Woke up this morning and hoped for a dream,_

_But reality came and sat next to me, and forced me to believe._

_Knocked down too soon_

_Like a skittle on the lanes._

_The man who took the wrong stop_

_From life's fast-moving train…_

It was Trent. There was no doubt about it tonight. That guttural rasp of country twang that very few can pull off… Sure, there were others that could sing jazz – David and Blaine, for example. But their voices were too sweet, too smooth. Trent's was… perfect. From the pitch to the emotion it conveyed… There was a horrifying sort of maturity that his voice carried, some strange loss of innocence. It was beautiful, in a twisted manner.

He waited until the song had finished, then knocked quietly on the door. "What's up, Trent? Couldn't sleep?"

He could hear some papers rustling inside. "Was… Was I too loud? I'm sorry, Wes, I'll just… I'll just go…"

The door remained closed. Forcing himself to trust that Trent was alright, he turned back away. "No, you're fine. Just… make sure you get some rest tonight, okay?" And, regretting his decision the instant he acted upon it, Wes turned and hurried back to bed.

Thankfully, the next day held a Warbler rehearsal after school. Wes had not been able to get Trent off his mind all day. That pain in his voice. How frightened he'd sounded at the interruption… at being discovered. And Wes knew from experience that the more terrified a person seemed at exposure, the higher a toll it was taking on them.

It wasn't really a surprise, therefore, that the freshman was absent from rehearsal. But upon asking Jeff – the only Warbler who shared a class with Trent, who took advanced history – Wes was concerned to learn he hadn't attended class that day. And that night, the piano room remained eerily quiet.

And so it remained for the rest of week. Whenever Wes was not kept busy with whatever errands he had to run, he spent the rest of his time trying to track down Trent. He didn't show up to rehearsal. He didn't show up to class. The piano room remained Wes' alone at night.

Eventually, on the Monday of the next week, Jeff came forward and told him that Trent had finally made an appearance after lunch – he'd lost weight, looked dreadful and sounded even worse – though, Jeff repeated back, "he was feeling a lot better than he appeared – and better than he'd felt since late Tuesday night."

Wes had been checking the music room every night since he'd first heard the singing. And he wasn't disappointed that Monday night. Sneaking down yet again, ear turned towards the soft oak door, he was greeted again with a lament, the voice much rougher than usual after nearly a week of disuse, the pitch slightly faulty, but the self-hatred just as evident.

_And I don't want the world to see me_

_Cos I don't think that they'd understand._

_When everything's made to be broken_

_I just want you to know who I am._

The song ended abruptly as a harsh coughing fit broke out inside. And without even thinking about it, Wes pushed open the door and had his arms around the freshman, rubbing his back as the boy turned red and started gasping for air.

"Trent… Breathe… That's right."

But as soon as he was able, the freshman pushed himself out of the senior's arms. "What are you doing here?" Eyes flashing. Accusatory. No, not accusatory. Defensive. Wes let his own eyes wash over the boy, from the trembling hands to the firmly folded arms to the dark bags ringing his eyes and the drawn expression of a boy that's lost a lot of weight in not very much time at all.

Wes was shocked, actually. "I couldn't sleep," he said, half-honestly. "So my feet just kind of lead me here." He bit his lip. "Are you okay? I mean… relatively? You're usually so… vivacious…"

Trent shook his head, eyes widening. Like he hadn't anticipated the question and really had no idea how to answer it. Or maybe he did know, but was fighting to decide whether to burden Wes with the proper answer or just side-step it. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. "I'm getting better," he finally whispered, eyes darting.

"Do you want to talk about anything? It's just… I know that look. It's okay, Trent. You can trust me, I promise."

That terrified expression. Wes would never forget it. They both knew at that moment that something was about to change. But it was up to Trent to dictate it.

Or maybe not. Trent's eyes fluttered shut and his breath began to hitch before sneezing twice. He snapped forwards and, on instinct, his hands raised to cover his face – the sleeve on his left arm falling back. Trent quickly realised his mistake and pushed the sleeve back to his wrist, but not before the damage had been done. Wes had seen the cuts. Tiny little things. Some white and healing, some still jagged. All in neat little rows.

"Trent…" Well, shit. Not exactly what he was expecting. Though thankfully, this wasn't his first experience with a friend. Wes sat down on the piano stool, watching the boy's lower lip begin to tremble. "Come here." He opened his arms and Trent fell into them, slowly beginning to cry.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 3 of the drabble series... Because who doesn't love some Trent!angst? Poor darling. The original prompt was "Lively". I'm thinking I might extend it, if I get the inspiration, but I do have a few things flowing through my mind. And TSAB always needs work.<strong>

**The songs I've used are _Boulevard of Broken Dreams _by _Green Day_, _My Legs Are Weak_ by _Paloma Faith_ and _Iris_ by _Goo Goo Dolls._**

**I've said it before, I'll say it again - if you guys ever need to talk about absolutely anything, you are more than welcome to PM me or hit up my Ask box on Tumblr. Compassion Alert is another great place to go on Tumblr, and there are heaps of lines in your country, virtually all toll-free. Please, whatever it is - you don't have to go through it alone.**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be shoved into a Vanishing Cabinet so that I end up with no idea where I am? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	2. Nets That The Fishermen Have Thrown

Wes didn't know how long he sat there rocking, the distraught freshman clutched tightly in his arms. He could vaguely recall waking with a damp chest and an unfamiliar weight on his lap, with some strange object pressing into his back… He considered briefly moving them to his room – Trent could sleep on the spare bed, which was reserved especially for occasions such as these – but before he could gather the willpower to disturb him, his eyes were yet again fluttering shut, his body somehow moulding itself to the upright against which he now lay.

But soon enough Dawn was poking her gaudy face through the gaps in the shutters, and Wes knew it was time to move. He stretched, gently, carefully, trying to waken his aching arms and neck, then cautiously began prodding the boy on his lap. He wouldn't leave Trent alone – he couldn't: they had to at least acknowledge something had happened – but he wanted Trent to keep his dignity too – and being found by the boarding masters, or some of the earlier risers, was probably not the best way for this to happen.

"Trent? It's morning."

Like he was almost expecting, Trent threw himself out of Wes' arms the instant his eyes snapped open and Wes couldn't help but feel a little guilty. The mornings were such a personal time – each boy reacted differently when woken, but dreams belong only to the beholder, and the reaction to them, let alone the merciless ripping of consciousness from dream to reality, is one event that ought not to be shared. It was one of the reasons why Wes woke so early – because if there were someone sleeping on that other bed, he could spare them a few minutes of privacy before their entire life tended to be painted graphically over the empty canvas of his mind. But desperate measures serve desperate circumstances, and so, with a sigh, Wes once again placed a gentle hand on Trent's shoulders, pulling him back away from the window – away from the beguiling façade of light – and back upstairs to the enforced privacy of his room.

He breathed in relief as he closed the door behind him, setting Trent down on the spare bed before brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead and setting the kettle to boil. "Trent, I want you to know that I won't force you to tell me anything. But there are some questions that I want to ask. Is that okay?" Wes sat down on his own bed, bending forwards with his elbows on his knees, hands lightly clasped midway – hands that were ready to reach for tissues, to wipe away tears, to comfort.

Again, Trent shook his head fearfully. "It's too much of a burden. You don't need to worry about me."

Damn it. "On the contrary, Trent, I definitely have need to worry." One hand stroked the tiny popping of fresh stubble on his chin as he thought, the other now placed cautiously on the younger boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry it had to happen this way – I'd much rather you came to me of your own volition – but you can't deny that I'm involved now." He sighed – such a heavy sigh, one that spoke of the confusing mash-up of thoughts flying through his mind, sometimes crashing into others and melding, sometimes being recognised, sometimes wearing a thick black cape so that they could escape conscious thought. A sigh that let out a tiny amount of worry, of frustration, of sheer helplessness. If Trent had come to him, he'd know exactly how to handle the situation – because the boys that did were actually seeking help, it was a lot easier to get the information he needed without feeling like he was prying or invading their privacy. But now he felt morally obligated to dig – only if he handled this with even the smallest error, he could push Trent away – and he had a nasty feeling he was one of the few people that _could_ help him, that could bring him out of that cocoon of his without shattering it and killing the defenceless butterfly underneath in the process. "I apologise for how blunt this is going to sound, but I have to ask…" He cringed at the oncoming words – but he was in too deep now. They had to escape his mouth. "The cutting. Does anyone else know about it? Or am I the first to find out?"

Trent was so still – the room was so still – that Wes could swear he saw the words form, leave his lips and just hang there in the thick air. Then, with a movement so small that if he'd blinked he would actually miss it, Trent shook his head. "You're the first."

"Okay." Transformation to confidant and protector complete. "How long ago did you start?"

A pause. Then another pause. The kettle began to whistle and boil over. It was only when Wes was standing, back turned, pouring water into cups with a remarkably steady hand, that Trent found the courage to answer, his voice barely above a whisper. "A few months, I guess."

"And did you ever consider talking to someone about it?" Wes handed over a steaming mug of tea – Earl Grey, so they wouldn't need milk – reassuming his perch with a second cup clutched to his stomach.

"No." Trent sighed, and they watched the citrus-scented fog from the cup slowly drift between them. "There's nothing anyone can do to help. So I didn't think I'd bother them with it, you know?"

Wes gave a tiny murmur of acknowledgement, one hand blindly searching for the tissue box as he gazed at the sick boy, deep in thought. His gut told him that Trent didn't seem suicidal – and he didn't want to prod more than necessity dictated. He set the tea briefly down on the bedside table so that he could clamp both his eyes with the heel of his hands – the only expression of exasperation he could allow himself – then dropped his hands, staring straight at Trent, begging him to understand – but to trust as well. "Look, I won't force you to talk. You can leave my room at any time. You don't have to speak. But I really want to understand… why?"

The next words that came out of Trent's mouth were so quiet that, despite the half metre between them, Wes couldn't make them out. But then he started sniffling and tears were cracking his façade, and Wes' arms were wrapping themselves around him and pulling him tighter before he even realised he was sitting on the other bed.

"I'm sorry, Wes. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Such harsh words, whispered with a broken voice. Repeated over and over and over again. Trent was hysterical. And all Wes could do was hold him again, rock him, try soothing words – "it's okay, it's not your fault, you have nothing to apologise for" – and no response but more tears, more despair. Though at least some of that tension was being released.

_Don't your feet get cold in the wintertime?_

_The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine._

_It's hard to tell the night time from the day._

_You're losing all your highs and lows._

_Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?_

Over and over Wes sang, sometimes substituting words or melodies, sometimes completely parodying it, sometimes even changing the song, but on it went. With each _Desperado…_ Trent became more and more calm. His breathing evened out again – well, as much as it could for an overwrought kid with bronchitis – but when Trent finally began to hum along in Wes' ear, chin buried in the niche between his neck and shoulder, Wes knew his song had done its job. He wasn't comfortable – not by a long way – but at least the anxiety had been reduced enough so that the boy could drink in a healthy amount of air.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He pulled away, watching Trent's lower lip tremble. But men are not made of straw – there was a spine of titanium buried somewhere deep within. Clutching Wes' pillow to his chest, Trent drew in a huge breath of preparation and began to speak.

* * *

><p><strong>Finally got there. Poor darling. My poor baby. I'm sorry, hon. I didn't want to mercilessly cut you off there. But the cutting there leads me to a rather lovely 5 chaptered story and, you know, art is art :P<strong>

**I'm such a horrible person.**

**I won't go all rambly on you because I desperately need sleep. But assessments are dying down soon so I'll be able to focus a little more on finishing this, and TSAB, and getting my next couple of fics on the road!**

**I've said it before though, and I'll say it again. If you ever need to talk about anything at all, I'm always around - PM me or hit up my Ask on Tumblr (pi-on-a-skateboard. tumblr. com). I'm not burdened by them, I don't judge. Whatever it is you're going through, you don't have to face it alone. I know you have the strength to face any sort of troubles - but sometimes you just need a little help, and that's okay too.**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to take on the appearance of a treble cleff? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	3. What Was Written On That Wall

"It's like… have you ever… I don't know… have you ever felt like you're standing in a crowded room, screaming, and nobody even bothers to look up? Like nothing you ever do has any meaning, any significance? Like absolutely no one cares?"

Wes sighed. What did Trent want? Was he after the truth? To be reassured? Because, well, everyone felt like that at some point in time… but if he said that, would he end up belittling him? He didn't want to just shut him down… But obviously Trent wanted some sort of answer, otherwise they wouldn't be left in this awkward silence. Or maybe he was just overthinking. "Yes." Simple. Take it or leave it.

"It's like… that's normal life, you know? Man, I'm used to that shit. Every single day. You know, I just float through the corridors, people see me, maybe smile back, but that's the extent of our relationship. I don't think half even the Warblers know my name."

So was the whole thing simply a cry for attention? "You have only been here a month, Trent. While I'll _definitely_ be talking to the Warblers," Wes winced at the anger seeping through his tone – how had he not realised this earlier? How could they let _anyone_ feel like that – especially someone so sweet and bubbly as Trent? – "the school is pretty big. It'll take some time…"

"Yeah. That's what I keep telling myself," Trent whispered, brushing away a couple of escaped tears. "But the same thing doesn't apply to my family. You'd think after 15 years they'd at least know my name. My _existence_."

"What – "

"My father." Wes almost recoiled at the contempt spat in just two words. "Well, not just _him_, but he's the main problem, I guess."

"Do you… Did he…"

"His abuse was never physical, no." Trent was quick to reassure him. "That's not to say it still didn't _hurt_ though."

Wes shut his eyes, inhaling some of the citrus tea fumes as he took a sip, trying to process, trying to think what to do next. One more question and he'd probably crack – that massive boulder on his chest should come tumbling off and maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to help. He was nearly there. But he couldn't push too hard, or in the wrong way, and scare him off... "What did he do?"

"What _didn't_ he do? That's probably an easier question to answer." Trent's eyes were smouldering with black flames, hurt and angry, but his face remained frozen in time, trying to lock those emotions in still. "Basically, he's never given a shit. My parents divorced when I was five or six. He… Well, I think he tried to remain in my life for a few years, but he moved to Seattle with his _wife_ and _her kids_ when I was ten and I haven't seen him since. He barely calls. He doesn't help at all. He built himself his own fucking family and, unless it can benefit him, refuses to talk to me. I don't think he even knows I'm _gay_." Trent laughed, bitter, humourless… aged way beyond his years. "He… well, to be honest, he neglected me. I actually think it's easier now, because he's so far away. Most of the time I can just pretend he never exists."

Wes' heart broke. He couldn't even begin to imagine what that was like. Sure, there were moments – many moments – where he just shut his eyes, shut out those memories – he didn't want particularly to remember his own family – it just brought too much pain. But he'd never felt abandoned or rejected. He'd never pretended they'd never existed. And, with the exception of his birthday and September 11, he _had_ that closure – he wasn't flooded with memories of them without warning. At least, he wasn't very often at all. He was allowed to move on with his life… Yet Trent was constantly being pulled back, made aware of the apathy, the neglect…

"But you know what hurts worse than that? It's the fact that despite the crap he's put me through, despite the fact that I know him to be a selfish bastard who just doesn't give a damn… I still want to impress him. I still want him to love me. I still feel like if I got full marks on that test, or got that solo in that song, or won a prize for that art project, that maybe he'd pay attention. Hell, maybe he'd even spare the time to be proud of me." Trent was shaking now, face drained of any colour. "Why? Why should I care? He means _nothing_ to me… yet everything I do… it's all for him. He doesn't deserve to know me… but all I want is to feel like I'm his little kid… and I haven't felt that way since I was about 8 years old."

A small tear leaked from his now-shut eyes, surprising both of them. Wes was so taken aback… From the way it sounded, Trent had been keeping that in for much longer than necessary, that anguish just eating away at him… He put an arm around the boy's shaking shoulders as the tears continued falling, just leaving the silence to percolate through the air.

"I'm s-sorry, Wes. I didn't m-mean to drag you in. I… I didn't mean to b-be such a mess…" His voice cracked with emotion, lip wavering as he kept fighting against the tears, kept fighting to keep that tight control.

"Hey. It's okay." Wes pulled him tighter. "You saw how I was just a couple of weeks ago… It's okay. No one expects you to be a robot."

"I'm weak."

"No." The words came out slightly too forcefully, and Trent looked up through the tears bejewelling his eyelashes. "You're _human_, Trent. This just proves you've been trying to be strong for far too long. Trusting me, telling me this – _that's_ what makes you strong. The fact that you're still here today – that's strength. That you haven't given up yet. That proves it to me."

"I've _never_ been strong," he whispered. "I've always run away, terrified, and hid."

Wes frowned. He'd seen the kid audition for solos in his second week of school, sit by Blaine and try to keep him conscious while they prepared injections, even stand up for himself and one of the other freshmen when a junior made a rather unfortunate crack at gay men. How could that possibly be interpreted as a lack of strength? "What do you mean by that?"

Trent took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, shakily. "There's… there's a story I can tell you… But I haven't told anyone before, and I'd appreciate you not repeating it."

"Of course. You can trust me, I promise." Wes quickly sat back on his own bed. "Take your time."

Trent coughed, trying to clear as much from his chest as he could, and sipped at his tea, his face steeling itself. He gazed off into the distance, frowning, but his face now almost… passive? Like he was watching TV rather than reliving an actual memory. Then, finally, he gasped and began to speak again in a careful monotone.

* * *

><p>"<em>Trent. Get into my bed now. Shut your eyes and, whatever you hear, don't come out."<em>

_His father's words. He still didn't really understand how it all had happened. But he could still taste that fear, dry and sickly sweet._

_His father had had a girlfriend. Bitch was probably the best way to describe her. She'd lied about Trent to get sympathy – which of course his father had believed. Any time, he'd always chosen her over him… which of course she took advantage of. Until now. They had planned to go to the snow with her, but that morning they had a fight and then broken up. Trent didn't understand why. But she'd decided to turn up that morning anyway._

_She'd been standing outside that door, yelling and screaming, for about an hour. And then… his stupid father had decided to let her in to use the bathroom. How could he possible believe she only wanted to pee? Of course she wouldn't just stop there. She just wanted to get inside._

_He'd "woken" to her yelling at him, standing over him as he crawled under the covers, trying to escape from her. Screaming something about a present she'd given him, and why was he ungrateful? And all he was, was scared, scared for his life. He didn't know if she had any weapons on her, what force she was capable of. But she was a big woman – probably easily weighed over 400 pounds – she could just have easily have squashed him. He was only little – only 8 years old. What had he done to deserve that?_

_And where was his father? He'd let her in. He'd caused all of it. All there was between him and her was a tiny cotton sheet. It was at that moment Trent stopped believing in the power of blankets over axe murderers._

_But then… his father was there, pulling her away. Yelling at him. But not bad yelling. Scared yelling. Trying to get him to move._

_So he did. Trent always obeyed his father's orders. He ran into his father's bedroom and dived under the doona, pulling it over his head. Sure, it shut out the light. But it didn't shut out the noise._

_Thudding. He remembered that. His father yelling at him not to look, and Sue yelling at him, asking him why he admired his father when he was… throwing drawers?_

_Finally the banshee faded away and the covers were pulled off him. His whole body was shaking but his father slowly prised his hands from his eyes. "It's okay." Clothes were strewn all over the bedroom floor and the drawers from the chest were piled in front of the closed doorway. The handle was jangling around as she tried frantically, madly, to try and open the door. But for now they were safe. "Come on."_

_His father ran to the windows, broke one of them with a brick – and Trent wasn't entirely sure where that had come from – crawled out of it. "Trent! Please! Hurry!" Then his father ran off. He didn't know where. He didn't really care._

_Trent ran to the window to. He wanted to follow. But just as he had his hands on the windowsill, he felt a strong, cold hand on the back of his neck, dragging him back, choking him._

_He screamed._

* * *

><p>"Shit…" Wes was pale, eyes popping – yet Trent's countenance had barely changed, remaining that horrible white empty canvas. "What did she do to you?"<p>

Trent shook his head. "I don't remember. That kills me more than everything else. I just don't _know_. There's always that uncertainty…" He squinted, like he actually was watching an image, trying to make it clearer. "It's locked in there somewhere. My dad… he came back in, told her the police were on their way and… I don't know. I remember sitting on the bed while he was phoning emergency services – because he said, 'my son was abused'. And all I can think was, maybe if I fought back, fought earlier or harder, it wouldn't have happened. I could have made him realise. I wouldn't have this huge black spot now – I might have actual memories instead."

"You know it wasn't your fault, right, Trent? She sounds a bit… messed-up. She lashed out at you. But nothing you could have done could have changed that."

Trent just snorted.

"I'm… I hope you don't mind me asking, but I'm confused… Did she… did she have some sort of weapon?"

Trent shook his head. "I don't _remember_. Maybe. Maybe it was just her sheer size, or how crazy she appeared. I don't _know_." His voice began to shake again. "I didn't remember the brick before now though…" His whole body trembling sent Wes into protector mode, and once again he found himself enveloping the boy with his arms, keeping a tight pressure – anything to help reassure him.

"What happened to her?"

"We got a restraining order…"

"And you think that's _hiding_? Trent, she threatened your life or well-being. That's _smart_."

"I know, but…" Wes felt him taking in more air, monitoring it, looking for signs of panic – though his breaths were still relatively deep for now. "I guess the biggest impact of that is that I'm a huge control freak. It's like… perfectionism to the point of OCD. If I lose control…" His breathing started becoming shallower, more rapid. "Well, I can't let that happen. Something has to be done about that weakness, that… that _failure_."

Wow. Did those words sound familiar or what? "Um… Listen… I don't know if you want advice or not but… have you ever considered talking to Blaine?" Careful. Don't spill what isn't yours to tell. "He just… he comes from a similar situation, and I mean, while I'm more than happy to sit here and listen to you, he might, you know, actually have some better advice for you… Or, at the very least, be able to relate… I mean, he's still here with us. And I know he can help with the perfectionism."

"Really?" Trent did look a little surprised. "But he's so… bubbly and crazy and _happy_."

"We say the same things about you, kiddo." Wes smiled. "You never know what everyone else is going through."

"Well… I'll think about it."

They fell once again into silence and Wes found himself reflecting over everything. How yet again he found himself acting like a makeshift big brother or father for one of his boys. How somehow, they all seemed to find they could trust him… which was strange. Though he was glad they could, that he was able to help out in some way… that's all he wanted to do with his life. Help people.

Trent's story actually seemed to explain it as well. Linking it with what Blaine had told him about his own past… Control was actually a pretty big issue. Wes had sat through too many of Blaine's panic attacks to ignore that… the fact that Trent had managed to tell him this – to expose that _flaw_, as he'd called it – that was huge.

"Trent?" The boy pushed himself away, looking at Wes. "Thank you for telling me this. I'm proud of you. I don't think I'd have the strength to do that. You know... diamonds are only created under the most intense pressure. And you, kiddo? You are friendly and bubbly and kind and strong. You ARE a diamond."

His story actually explained a lot about him, now Wes thought over it. Not that he'd known him very long. But Trent was already known to the Warblers as the next puppy. Always happy, always eager to please, never judging or assuming… it was a clear sign of years of neglect. Like he was trying to make up for that by… not so much buying other people's love, but doing everything in his power not to force them away anyhow. He'd learnt about that in the child protection course the school made the senior prefects sit… How had he not realised sooner?

But that was crazy. You can't assume just because someone is overly friendly that they've been abused. That just leads to horrible trouble and awkward situations…

The important thing, though, was that Trent had told him all of that. Trent trusted him. There was just one more issue to deal with.

"Trent… I have one more thing to ask… and I know it's going to be difficult…" But the boy was almost smiling now, bitterly but smiling nonetheless, like he knew what was coming. "The cutting… You said it started a few months ago… Is there any sort of trigger that you know of? Or anything at all we can do to help you out?"

Another soft snort. "I… well, the first time, everything just… the pain, the hurt, everything… it got too much and I went to a razor instead of a rope. It just… I couldn't do anything about it. But by slicing away outside, I could take control over it." Ah, that magic word. "I could beat it. Nothing I couldn't handle. Or so I kept telling myself.

"My flaws are mainly what I… what I hack away at. Stress obviously makes it worse. But I… I hadn't actually done anything until I got sick. Not for a few weeks."

Well, it was a start. "Why did you stop?"

"I just… I didn't need to. The inside pain got to a level where, when walking around school, I didn't feel false, like I was forcing that smile."

"And the relapse?"

Trent moved this time, kneeling by Wes, and he quickly got down to join him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "My father's coming to Westerville," he whispered, before crumbling into Wes' shoulder once again.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi guys!<strong>

**So... again... sorry for the ridiculous wait for an update... As always, uni work is nuts. Also because yet again I'm projecting myself onto my characters. The story Trent tells is mine... and I know about as much as he does. So if it doesn't make sense at all, please let me know and I'll edit this to make sure it does, but I'm a little hazy on what I do and don't remember, so I don't know how much sense overall it makes...**

**As always, if anything I write affects you in any way, or if you just need someone to listen to you, I'm always around. You can PM me here, or leave a review, or hit up my Ask on Tumblr - you can find me at pi-on-a-skateboard. tumblr. com . You can remain anon, but my Ask is always open, and I'll do whatever I can to help you out. Whatever it is - you are never alone. You deserve happiness just as much as Trent, or myself.**

**So, two more chapters planned for this - though, my characters often have a mind of their own, so we'll see how it all turns out.**

**And also - if you recognise it, chances are it isn't mine. Including the title of the story and the chapters - they're all taken from the song _We Don't Eat_, by _James Vincent McMorrow_. Absolutely gorgeous song - I'd definitely recommend listening to it at some point in time - and it has the most gorgeous imagery which I feel slightly guilty stealing...**

**Thanks to all the lovelies who have read, subscribed, favourited and reviewed! Especially to Jennyanddots, xXLittle Rose AngelXx, Different Child, Eraman and PenMagic!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to prick my finger on a rose thorn and sleep for a hundred years, or until my cute American gets his fine arse down to Australia to save me? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	4. A Little Bit of Hope

"So, I'll see you on Saturday? Come pick you up from school?"

"Yeah, Dad. Sounds great." Trent could only hope he sounded somewhat enthusiastic as he hung up the mobile phone, that his voice didn't betray the turbulent current of emotions bubbling and swelling and rising under that perfect still lake he usually kept…

The first wave to hit him was one of pure anger, and Trent flung his phone as far away from him as possible. It smashed into the wall with a loud crack – he might have actually dented the plaster – but he didn't care. Breathing fast and heavy, he sank to his knees, pressing his fists to his eyes, forcing the tears back in. How dare his father have this power over him? How dare he just march back into his life like nothing had changed?

But as soon as it had begun to swell, the crest had crashed over his head and the next wave was building – this one of utter confusion. Why was his father coming back? How was he meant to react to this? And what was he feeling anyway? There was anger, yes, and loss, and hurt, and… love? Happy, excited?

And then… nothing. Emptiness. Numb. It was all gone. He didn't deserve emotions. They were human, weak… _flaws_. No. They couldn't exist.

Well, that was it. He'd basically pretended that the past week hadn't happened – that Wes hadn't found him, that his father had never told him anything – and the boys had actually been pretty good at respecting that… Sure, Wes might look at him slightly differently – with more concern than normal, perhaps – but it hadn't been spoken of.

But this _was_ really happening. With a sigh, wiping his eyes – slightly disgusted at how frequently he'd been forced into that action the past week – Trent screwed up his nerve and finally climbed those stairs for a chat.

* * *

><p><em>Knock, knock<em>.

"Whoever you are, I'm sorry – I'm kinda busy… can it wait?"

Shit. He didn't know if he'd have the courage to come back later… "It's Trent. I… yeah, it can wait. When can I… is there anything I can do to help?"

A couple of thumps and the door opened a smidge. Blaine peeked around the frame, hair a ringletted rats'-nest, pen lid poking out between his lips. "You look terrible, man. When was the last time you slept?"

Trent couldn't help but grin. "Says the guy with two pens and a pencil stuck in his hair."

Blaine smiled sheepishly, hand fishing through the curls. "I was actually just looking for a pencil…" He pulled it out, laughing. "I was arranging music while trying to hide from precalc homework." The door fully opened and Blaine, ever the touchy-feely person he was, gave Trent a hug before he moved back to pick up some of the papers littering the floor. "How are you?" Hazel eyes met him – such a piercing gaze – and Trent shivered, feeling almost naked, like all his thoughts and emotions were just out there, being read.

But Blaine smiled again, closing the door and sitting cross-legged on his bed. "I know you came here to talk about other stuff, but I just meant, how's your health? I've missed hearing your voice the past, what, three weeks?"

Oh. Trent snorted. He'd been attending classes and rehearsal, but he still hadn't recovered much of the weight he'd dropped when he fell ill, and he'd been worrying so much he probably _was_ currently rocking that bags-under-the-eye thing. "I'm okay. I can't sing yet without coughing up a lung, but I still maintain that my _coughing_ is more in-tune than Brad's singing!"

Blaine chuckled. "Our poor, tone-deaf, housemate. I don't know who I feel more sorry for – him or his roommate!" He indicated the bed opposite, inviting him to sit. "Well, I'm glad you're a little better, in any case. Being sick is never fun."

He let it hang, and Trent was yet again surprised by the look Blaine sent him. There was that typical warmth and spark of life. But the sympathy Trent was so accustomed to receiving lately was absent – instead it was filled with compassion and understanding.

Trent… didn't really know Blaine very well. Sure, the entire school knew him as the smart, funny, talented, dramatic, confident, friendly gay kid… but that was it. Trent was pretty good at reading people – he knew there was more there. He'd seen glimpses of the quiet, unassuming… _scared?_... side – when Blaine was singing, especially when linked to his family. Or after he went really low a month ago and Trent had sat with him, trying to keep him awake – the older boy, after a remarkable recovery, had taken him for ice cream to explain everything.

Maybe that's why Trent trusted him. They'd barely ever spoken a word to each other – yet Blaine would always smile and wave in the halls, or make room for him in the dining hall… he'd even hugged him just before, and had no idea what Trent was there for, or why… And he'd seen how patient he was when dealing with the junior school, or talking – actual talking and listening – to his friends. And he just… seemed to get things. Plus, Wes trusted him. And – especially now – Trent couldn't help but trust Wes.

"Okay, I have to ask… did Wes tell you to come to me? He just… he said one of the younger guys might need my help and to keep an eye out… was that you?"

Trent slowly nodded.

"Alright. Well, I'm no Wes, but I'll do what I can to help you out…" He paused, scratching his nose. "There's… not a whole lot I'd be better than Wes at though. Is it…? No, I shouldn't assume – that was one of the things he told me. But… I don't know…" He looked back at Trent, who was now giggling. "Sorry. I do, er, talk to myself a fair bit. Bad habit, I know. But, well… what can I do for you?"

Trent bit his lip. How much could he bring himself to share? Blaine… if he wanted some help then he'd probably have to tell a large amount of his story… Well, Wes did say that he came from a similar situation. But this was Blaine. He'd probably been through a lot worse. And Trent wasn't diabetic or anything crazy like that… he didn't have these issues. And now he was probably just going to annoy him and, oh God, why had he even come up here to bother him at all? God, he was so _selfish_. And he was going to be judged, and how did he know what to spill and what to hide, and –

"Trent." He looked up suddenly, the soft yet commanding utterance of his name pulling him back to the present. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me anything that you're not comfortable with."

"Thanks…" He couldn't bring himself to meet Blaine's eyes again. He was scared what he might find there. "I don't know where to begin…"

"Do you need me to… Wes does this thing where he keeps asking questions and I know that really helps me when I need to get something out. Do you want me to just try that?"

Trent cocked his head to the side, considering… but he nodded. It'd probably be easier that way, really.

"Okay. Um… let's see…" Blaine frowned, and Trent knew he felt just as uncertain how to react to the situation. They…well, Trent would like to think they were sort-of friends, but they couldn't just start up a random conversation about the price of blue cheese yet. Blaine sighed. "Can you tell me the main thing this is about? If there is anything in particular you need to chat about? Just so I… have a general idea what to ask you?"

"My… My Dad…" Trent said, looking over his shoulder. "And… the cutting…" His voice dropped to a whisper and he felt his face burn… He was actually somewhat ashamed. Which he supposed was a good thing… usually he just wouldn't care if people found out… but now he didn't want to be judged… he wanted friends. He wanted to have people care for him, and not just be scared off.

"Okay. That's okay." Blaine's eyes had widened, but he spoke in a slow voice – like he was reassuring himself as much as the younger kid. "You… I don't know why you do it, but you have to stop hurting yourself, okay, Trent? Please? Whatever you feel you've done, you don't need to be punished for it."

"It's not that," he whispered. "I can't help it. I just… feel so helpless. It's the only control I have any more."

"Can you explain that? How is hurting yourself keeping control? I'm not… I'm not accusing you here, or calling you wrong" – because that would be judgement and Wes strongly told him not to pass any sort of judgement; it wasn't his place to – "but I just… I don't understand…"

Trent shook his head. "I know I need to stop. But I can control that physical sort of pain, and it's a distraction and just… I can't stop it. I can't explain it. I'm sorry."

"Right…" Don't judge, Blaine. Please. Don't judge. "Well… can you come talk to me or Wes or someone next time? I know there are a couple of guys here that… have issues like that… Wes is better at that stuff than me. I panic too much. But if you want to come talk to me, er… that's okay too." He smiled in manner of apology. "Um… What about your Dad? Why is that an issue?"

Silence.

"Has he… is it because of…" Blaine trailed off, biting his lip again, uncertain how to phrase anything without any unnecessary insinuations. He didn't even know if Trent was out yet…

More silence.

"Okay… Um… Why did Wes tell you to talk to me? Did he tell you anything about me?"

"He said that we came from similar situations…"

"Is that… your sexuality? Are you abused?"

Trent put his face in his hands. Oh, God. Blaine came from such a worse background, didn't he… Oh, God. He really had some nerve, some… inflated sense of self-worth… "Were you _abused_?" he whispered, dropping his hands – absolutely mortified.

"I… yes. I suppose I was." Blaine actually seemed… somewhat comfortable talking. That was surprising. "My father, he… My mother was terrified, so my sisters and I were both basically neglected. He… was a drunk and rather physical. After I came out, he got… so much worse. And it just built to a point where I decided I had to remove myself from that definitively. So I'm in the process of becoming emancipated, and here we are today." Blaine shrugged, then smiled. "Sorry. Rambling and oversharing are a couple more of my flaws…"

"I don't think Dad even knows I'm gay. I don't… I mean, I know who I am, but I haven't… I haven't exactly come out officially yet…"

"You don't have to tell anyone. It's nobody's business but your own who you fall in love with, Trent…" God. He'd always tried telling himself that… Hearing it from somebody else – especially someone so _proud_ as Blaine… that was special. "Coming out was… terrifying, to be completely honest. I felt a lot more secure after I did though, because I just felt like I was at that stage. But if you're not ready… you'll just end up full of resentment."

Blaine's eyes drifted out of focus, and for the first time, the older boy actually looked slightly pained… Trent had heard various stories about Blaine's old school – the boy was naturally a little jumpy, and he was a year older than most of the guys. He knew the bullying had been quite… severe… but that was about it.

But then Blaine gave another tiny smile. "Dalton's pretty cool – when you're ready for it, nothing will have changed – the guys here will still love and accept you. And you are _definitely_ welcome to come talk to me, or Wes – or even Nick or Jeff – if you need help or understanding or _anything_. But I'm tipping that's neither here nor there for the moment, right?"

Trent shrugged noncommittally. He'd been doing so much of that lately… he used to be so lively, and now he was wondering if his voice wouldn't just fade away from disuse… "I wasn't abused. He just… never cared." Well, Blaine did deserve some kind of answer…

"Okay." Blaine again looked confused, uncertain. "And… is that what causes… everything? I'm not entirely sure what you're looking for here."

"I'm not either."

"Hmm…" Blaine hummed in thought, reaching into the bag hidden under his bed and pulling out a block of Cadbury's chocolate. "Call me a girl, but I don't think it's possible to talk without chocolate. And this is from Jeff – it's not owned by Hershey's. It's _really good_." He chuckled, ripping into the foil and offering the sweet-smelling block. "Plus, chocolate makes everything better!"

That was random. Trent giggled as he accepted a piece.

"There's that smile!" Blaine leant over, pinching his cheeks – which were promptly slapped away. "Hey!" He shook his head. "Okay. I guess I am a bit of a dick."

Trent poked out his now rather-brown tongue.

Blaine was still smiling – though his eyes had taken on that darker, more empathetic quality again. Cogs turning and smoke swirling behind them – memories and ideas and eddies of emotion. Time to get serious again. "So… at the risk of sounding horribly clinical, how does your dad – the 'neglect' and whatever else have you – how does that make you feel? I mean… if you feel neglected, I guess that would explain the depression or whatever it is that makes you… makes you cut…" he spat the word, like just thinking it would rip open his tongue – "but you make it sound like you're almost used to it…"

Trent looked down at his arm, surprised to find his hand covering his left wrist – the expression of all the hurt, the weakness. Four little cuts for when his father was too busy to call him. One wrinkled, unfeeling, too-white streak of skin for when his birthday was forgotten. Several in a grid for when all he could see was his pain and needed a distraction for that. A whole lot more that he couldn't even remember – a deep scratch he hadn't even realised he'd made, a flap of skin where he'd woken to his senses in the bathroom with no idea whose razor he'd stolen or why he was even in there… "Well, yeah, that's part of it, I suppose. It's a little worse at the moment though…"

Blaine's eyes snapped up, locking into his. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is it worse now?"

"Oh. Um." He figured it was better to be honest. He'd already slipped up by telling him this… might as well go all-out, right? "My Dad… He's coming to Westerville and just… I don't know what I'm meant to do or how I'm meant to act or anything."

"You know I can't tell you how you're meant to feel, right?" Blaine reached out for him, putting a hand on his shoulder… Trent wondered why people always felt they had to do that. He wasn't about to cry: not this time. But it was reassuring nonetheless.

"But what do I _do_?"

Blaine stood up, giving Trent a hug before sitting down next to him on the bed. "Be honest."

Trent's bottom lip began quivering. No. He wouldn't cry. Not again. Bad enough he'd forced himself to come up here – he didn't need anything else to prove how weak he was. "But that'll _hurt_ him, Blaine. I can't hurt my Dad. He hates me enough as it is."

"Oh, boy. Do you really have that little self-esteem?" Trent looked up into those hazel eyes, so honest and caring. "Trent. First of all, I don't think it's possible for anyone to hate you, full-stop. Sure, you got yourself a little sass," Blaine changed his pitch, trying to adopt that stereotypical gay lisp, "but honey, I just _love_ you for that." He dropped his voice back to his normal accent though, as he sobered up. "But, Trent, you are so sweet and kind and courageous and funny. You actually remind me a little of Wes… Those qualities are so… attractive. You probably don't realise it, but people know who you are. I know there are plenty of guys that already look up to you – remember Oliver? When that dickhead James made that crack at you guys… Oliver froze. But you stood up for him. And, if we didn't already before then, that earned you so much respect."

"Really?" Trent sniffed.

"Yeah, really." Blaine smiled. "And, what's more – your dad is your dad. Despite everything that's gone on – you're still his son. He'd be crazy to do anything but love you. And I know… wow, this is gonna sound _soooooo_ cheesy… but if you were my son, Trent, I'd be proud of you."

"Wow…" Trent was blown away. How could he know to say that? That was exactly what he needed to hear. Again.

"Can you do that? Can you be the brave man I know you are, and tell him how you feel? Even if you think it might hurt him?"

"I… I'll try, Blaine." But Trent, despite the incredible actor he already was, couldn't help his tone, and they both knew there was more to it than just that.

They yet again fell into silence as they tried to absorb everything – Trent, the fact that someone actually respected him, and Blaine trying to get his head around all these new revelations about the freshman. Bits of chocolate were broken off, and he put a piece in his mouth, letting it slowly melt away… trying to force his anxiety to melt inwards and shrink like the food in his mouth.

But then Blaine sighed. "Look, Trent. Our situations are a little different here. I mean… I'm not a counsellor… I've been seeing the school counsellor here, actually – Mr Harris, do you know him? – and that has really helped me. But…" Blaine groaned, and Trent knew he was trying so hard to put his finger on what was bugging him – not that he understood why he wanted to help him so much. "Well, why did you talk to Wes?"

Trent shut his eyes, thinking back to that night. How close he'd been to the end of his tether. How hard everything had been – still was, really… but then how the senior had found him, had taken him in, had cared for him… How he'd made Trent sleep in his room the next few nights so that he wouldn't have to be alone. How… how warm he was. How his hugs just seemed to envelope you, like they could shade you from any sort of evil in the world. How he felt… how he felt _safe_ with him.

"Okay, don't answer that. There must have been something you _said_ to him though, to make him think of me. I'm sure Wes would have given you the exact same advice… So there has to be something more to it… Was there anything else he said, why I'd be able to help you?"

"He, um… Oh!" A light suddenly clicked. "He said he knew you 'could definitely help with the perfectionism'."

"You're a perfectionist too?" Blaine shifted, sitting cross-legged again, but this time facing Trent.

"That's putting it mildly," Trent scoffed.

Blaine nodded. "So, let me guess. There's all this hatred and emotion that leaves you feeling like crap and with no control – which you then see as a weakness. You'd ask for help, but that would expose you and would also force you to drop your burden on someone else, which is selfish and thus a flaw. You consider anything less than 90% a failure, you'd rather just not try something rather than the possibility of failing, and even just the thought of people seeing you less than perfect, or interfering with your work and possibly messing it up, makes you really anxious."

A gasp. "Get out of my head."

"Better your head than a certain other part of your anatomy," Blaine spoke, before he blushed and pressed a hand to the side of his face. "Wow… A little too soon for the gay jokes… I'm sorry."

Trent hit him, but he was giggling again.

"Well, in terms of perfectionism… I guess what really helped me was letting people in. Letting people see my flaws. And then… Wes was amazing. He just seemed to get what was going on – especially after I went into full-blown panic-attack mode on him. And do you want to know what he said to me?"

Trent nodded.

"He said that what I considered to be flaws would one day make some guy fall for me. And that living with all these imperfections actually made me a stronger human being – because I could use them to relate to others."

"You are perfect," Trent whispered.

"What? No! Far from it! Look at my hair, for example!" Blaine cracked. "Seriously, though. You'll have to think about this – it took me a long while to even begin to consider it, and I still have even further to go – but perfectionism, essentially is about the image we portray to everyone else… But people have a much different perceived reality of us than what we actually live with. So, I guess what it essentially comes down to, is who would you rather please, or where would you rather spend your effort? On perfecting every tiny minute detail about yourself – which people probably won't notice anyway – or on just being the best – within reason – person that you can be, and making yourself happy?"

Trent bit his lip, frowning in thought.

"But anyway… enough of my talking your ear off… did any of that help at all?"

"Yes. A little. Thank you." Trent moved this time, shyly but surely, and pulled Blaine into a hug.

"Any time." They pulled apart, and Blaine ruffled his hair. "Come talk to me any time you want, okay? You're _always_ welcome."

"Thanks." Trent stood to go back downstairs, still deep in thought.

"Oh, and Trent?"

He turned from the door to look at his friend, who was following him to the threshold.

"You've probably heard this enough already, but one more time can't hurt. I know how hard this must have been for you, and I just wanted to say… You are so strong and brave. And, Trent? I'm proud of you." Blaine's arms again wrapped themselves around his shoulders.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." And Trent walked away, back to his own room, with, for the first time in what seemed like months, a genuine smile in his eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Wow... That kinda stretched on a little...<strong>

**So I set out to write Trent's confrontation with his dad... Only my muse decided to be a little funky and, well, this happened. Not that I'm really complaining - I liked exploring Blaine a little in this. But my story can't be 5 chapters any more... It's probably going to be 6 :P**

**I have parts of the next TSAB planned, as well as half a chapter for The Warbler Files, and basically a heap of other stuff which I'm sure if you really want to know, you'll find out about soon enough :-) Though I do have exams in 3 weeks, so apart from TSAB I can't promise any more updates. I also got elected as publicity officer for my music group - which my a cappella choir is part of - so I may be whoring them out a little, as well as having more of my time eaten up :P**

**As always, if you guys ever need anyone to listen to you, or you need advice or want to talk or absolutely anything at all - you're more than welcome to come talk to me - either PM me or hit up my Tumblr - pi-on-a-skateboard. tumblr. com - anon or not. Whatever it is, you don't have to go through it alone, and I'll do whatever I can to help you out :-)**

**1 in the morning so I'm being good and not crazy-rambling tonight. That'll be in TSAB, like normal :P**

**Thanks to everyone that has read/reviewed/favourited/subscribed. You guys are all incredible and I smile like an absolute idiot reading what people have taken the time to write! Thanks especially to xXLittle Rose AngelXx, Pen Magic, Different Child, Eraman and Carbon65!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to turn into a CD8 molecule and be used to attempt to identify certain T cells? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	5. At The Table

His hands were jittery, and he willed them still, but not even the steaming cup in front of him with the tangible promise of coffee and chocolate and sweetness could quell them.

He didn't want to look up. He wasn't sure he could… The car had been hard enough. Not just the whole getting-into-a-moving-vehicle-with-what-was-basically-a-stranger thing… It was this… being in such close circumstances with the man that should mean everything to him, yet he remained as foreign as Vegemite. He should have been there. For everything. Should have seen his son falling… Should have seen his son.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

He was a stranger. He didn't know him. He barely even recognised him… He hadn't even noticed him standing in the carpark, until Wes had given him a tired elbow, nodding at the clear blue eyes searching through the pulsing mass of boys.

Family resemblance had to come out somehow… because he sure as hell wasn't anything like this man.

"So, you never told me how you're doing, kiddo?"

Trent shrugged, not trusting his voice not to break. He stared down at the fingers of the person opposite, curling over the mug, and used his own coffee as a distraction, fishing out a spoonful of whipped cream that he knew he wouldn't be able to taste.

David was somewhere. He had to be somewhere.

_I'm not alone_.

He took a deep breath.

_I can do this._

"How's school?"

"Same old," he spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

He needed a familiar face. He didn't want to look up into those eyes, like looking in a mirror… but, no, not really. He didn't understand that face. Didn't know anything about it. When he looked at himself, that's what he saw – his face, his eyes, how tired he was, how much of a struggle he'd come through but then how happy he could be, all the friends he had and the laughter he'd shared… But, he didn't know what he'd see looking up… and that scared him.

But, even more than that… It'd all be forgotten the instant he looked up. Because suddenly this man would turn into DAD, the person that created him, that's half of who he is, that he cannot help but love because of some stupid program inserted into humans… And he was weak. He wasn't strong enough to stand up for himself.

_I need David… I need help…_

"What's your favourite subject?"

He honestly pitied him a little, trying so hard to be natural. But how could it be? "…Haven't decided yet. Shop's fun though."

"You like working with your hands, huh?" The man took a sip from his mug. "Just like your father."

Trent closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>"<em>How did it go with Blaine?" Wes smiled down at him as he jumped into the chair opposite.<em>

"_Fine," Trent replied, watching the senior. "He… had some great things to say…"_

"_And you're… meeting tomorrow?"_

_He nodded._

"_Jeff wants to go out with you – so you've got an escape route. I assume you're taking him to The Bean?"_

_Another nod._

"_Thing is, I don't think Nick can leave his room, let alone campus, and I know Jeff won't leave him. Blaine can't drive… So I might follow from…" He yawned. "Sorry. From a distance."_

"_Wes, I… You're exhausted."_

"_But you…" The senior yawned again, bringing his chin to rest on his fist. "Sorry. You need me."_

_His eyes flicked up to meet the warmth and earnestness in his companion… Wes was pale, huge bags shadowing his eyes… Sure, he needed help, but he couldn't let his friend run himself to the ground. "I'll be okay."_

_He didn't really mean it though, and his acting ability must have diminished… or maybe it was just the fact it was Wes. But the leader sat a little straighter, reaching out for his arm. "What's bugging you?"_

"_What if I'm like him?" He didn't even need to think. "I've gone through life loving this man, who's the cause of most of my pain… What if I'm like him? What if I'm just as big a jerk as he is? I just… I… I… I can't be, can I? What if…"_

"_Hey." Wes frowned now, eyes more alert than he'd seen in weeks. "Do you know how many people asked me how I am today? One. You. You're always looking out for everyone else, and, Trent, that's already one huge difference between you." He moved closer, perching on the arm of Trent's chair. "And, if you are like him… then so what? You know what his mistakes are… and, in doing so, you can avoid repeating them. I mean, there's similarities between you and Hitler, or me and Hitler, if you look deep enough. He's your family… but he isn't you. You are you, Trent."_

* * *

><p>"What about the school? Who's your best friend?"<p>

"Don't have one."

He buried himself in his mocha again… but it was true. He didn't have just one best friend. After… everything that had gone on, after being taken in by Wes and talking to Blaine and helping look after Nick and… well, everything else… something had changed. He wasn't some outsider. He was part of the family. Their younger brother. Since getting sick and seeing their reactions to his return… he knew they cared. And David had even driven all the way out here for him. David, the enigma. David, the scarily smart. David, Wes' best friend. David, who was still learning how to communicate with people. They were all here.

_I can do this. Just finish your goddamn drink._

"What about things not-school-related?"

He rose his head, catching a flash of blue…

* * *

><p>"<em>How is it you always know exactly what to say?" he asked, finally pulling out of the hug.<em>

"_Luck, mostly," Wes smiled, running a hand through his hair. "Okay. So, for tomorrow… We'll be around. The code word – I don't know if you've picked up on it yet – is E sharp minor. You can text me, or somehow slip it into your discussion, and I'll be there to get you out."_

"_Thank you." He hugged him again though. "But, Wes, you need to sleep. I don't want you to burn out…"_

_Wes had the decency to look taken aback._

"_But, I don't know who to ask…"_

_And Wes had smiled. "You don't need to worry about me, Trent. But, if you're sure… I know just the guy for the job."_

* * *

><p>"Still with me, kiddo?" His father leant over, squeezing his shoulder.<p>

Trent's fist clenched tighter over the mug at the touch. No, he was not going to take _that_ from him too. _I'm not your kiddo_, he wanted to scream. But instead, he faked a smile. "Sorry, I'm… What did you ask?"

"I asked about everything else you do," the man grinned, lights playing off his eyes. "I never hear from you any more…"

The nerve of him. The pure nerve. Trent shook the hand off his arm, drawing in a breath to bite back… but it caught in his throat and the next thing he knew, he was bent double as his lungs screamed for more air and less fluid.

"Shit, kid," his father said. "You still breathing?"

"I'm not your kid," he spat as he straightened up. "You lost that right years ago. I'm sorry, but I can't do this." Then he stood up, grabbing David's shoulder as he passed the table on the table over, before striding out, head held high.

It wasn't until he was in the safe enclosure of Dalton's walls that the tears finally began to fall.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi guys!<strong>

**Again, I'm apologising... This has been way too long. I've been flat out working in my uni break, and just... haven't had the time or energy to dedicate to this. And, even more so, this is... really close to my heart, I suppose. So it's almost like I need a certain mindset, or energy level, to write this.**

**I was hoping to get more of this done, more said between the two of them... but I couldn't. Not tonight. Maybe in the future. Though, I know basically what I want to happen with them. Or, at least, I know what happens to Trent :p So I think that'll be the next chapter, to finish it off, but with the promise of future updates if I need the specific outlet.**

**And how are all you guys?**

**Also... well, this is very close to my heart... Trent is basically all the things I wish I could say but don't have the strength to... and then some more. But, if you guys ever need to talk about anything at all, I'm around. Tumblr is probably the easiest place to find me - my URL is the same - or you can PM me here. Whatever it is, you are never alone.**

**Thank you so much to everyone that's read, reviewed, all that jazz. It really does mean the world to me. Thanks especially to XXXNiffWevidTradRobastianXXX , Scared-Like-Me, Carbon65, xXLittleRoseAngelXx, Different Child, Eraman and PenMagic!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my notebook (or me) to spontaneously combust? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	6. Under A Mountain

_I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this, I just I can't I can't I cannot I am unable I… help me what I CANNOT DO THIS_

Red. Red. All red. He didn't mean to. He didn't mean to.

He was weak. So weak.

He didn't mean to. Honestly, he didn't. He just… It happened.

Trent sat by the side of his bed, rocking, arm clutched to his chest. It hurt. It hurt so bad. Everything. It just… How?

Tears streamed down his face but he didn't even register their existence, couldn't even relish in their saltiness. It was all black around him. And red.

His father was there, dancing amongst the flames in his mind, twin horns of his head. He was so… tantalising, so alluring, so intriguing. He wanted to run to him. To ask him how he did it. How he danced in the flames and didn't get burnt.

But he couldn't. Because he was weak. He wasn't strong enough.

There was a roaring. No, not roaring. Laughing. They were laughing at him. Because he sure as hell wasn't laughing back.

Was that all he was? A joke.

No. No. No. He couldn't be.

He was so close… It was there, under the bed. The monsters. They always lived there. Didn't matter that he was in high school. Didn't matter that he weighed infinitely more than them. Didn't matter even that they weren't real… because he couldn't fight them off. He was too tired. Too weak. Too flawed.

And so he rolled, straight under, his lights off. And he cried and cried.

And he laughed, cold and deep and bitter. He had stared into the eyes of the beast, and seen a crystal clear blue reflected back. Were they his? Or his father's?

He didn't know. But he didn't like them.

It was raining. It was raining on his face. Acid. It was acid, it was acid, there was acid on his face and his arms and his skin and his clothes.

But it wasn't real. It wasn't a dream. It was just… under the bed.

So he rolled out. Dried his face. Changed out of his uniform.

Went up to the piano room. Sat down on the stool and shivered into its cold hug… Then he began to play.

* * *

><p><em>Across the hall, up the stairs, Wes suddenly sat up. "Shit, I didn't mean to fall asleep!" He leapt out of bed, hand smoothing down his hair though doing nothing to quell the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. <em>Trent better be alright…

* * *

><p><strong>Hi guys!<strong>

**Not... entirely sure where this came from... but Trent wanted a little bit of attention. Plus, I can hopefully get to writing him and Wes, which I think needs to happen again... He needs that introduction to Warbler debriefs. I've a nasty feeling this is going to get extended as my Muse sees fit... Silly thing... But anyway. Have an update?**

**Thanks again to everyone for sticking with me through this! Thanks to XXXNiffWevidTradRobastianXXX , Carbon65, PenMagic and Eraman! Hopefully I won't leave you waiting too much longer for the next one... though, university is a bit like a toddler... It needs a lot of my attention at the moment!**

**As always, if you ever need to talk about anything - I'm around. Even if I am busy. I do read everything I get, and I respond as soon as I am able. You guys are never truly alone. You can PM me or hit my Ask on Tumblr, at any time, for any reason. :-)**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to roll off the bed and be taken by the boogeyman? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	7. The Same Old Lines

He ran down the stairs, down the corridors, towards the piano room, knowing, just _knowing_ that Trent would be there. His heart raced ahead, pulled him there, like it had been cut straight out of his chest and was dragging him along on a string, like a carrot pulls a rabbit, but he could never quite catch up.

_Just let him be okay_.

He couldn't shake the feeling… Like a mixture of déjà vu and apprehension and… he wasn't sure what else. He just… had to get there, and soon.

How could he be so irresponsible? How could he actually let himself fall asleep? He _knew_ what was going on. He _knew_ that Trent was going out with his dad… and how tumultuous as experience that was going to be. How could he _possibly_ think that he would be okay after that? That he wouldn't need someone there to destress?

Sure, David was there. And David was wonderful. But… David didn't know Trent. Didn't know that he wouldn't ask. Didn't know that he'd pretend away everything… and quite convincingly too.

Maybe he'd be alright. Maybe, just maybe.

But Wes didn't think so.

He sprinted down the final corridor, the door coming up on his left. It was shut, he could hear, because the piano was barely audible as it burrowed through and around the door. But it was there, dampened, and even though no lyrics were being sung, he could hear it immediately in his head.

_Nobody said it was easy_

_No one ever said it would be this hard…_

_Take me back to the start…_

There was a strangled sort of sob as he pushed open the door.

It was Trent. Of course it was. He seemed to be… it couldn't be a trance. Trance was too peaceful a word. But he was sitting dead straight, only his foot on the pedal and his fingers rippling over the keys to break the illusion.

"Trent?"

He didn't look up, didn't seem to be aware of anyone else's presence.

Wes crept in, slowly, as he kept playing. He dropped down beside him on the stool, reaching an arm across him and applying a light pressure.

"It's Wes… Are you okay?"

"Wes?" It was his name that seemed to break Trent out… He looked back, his eyes darting, hands flying off the piano.

"Are you alright?" he repeated, more gently this time.

Trent's eyes flicked briefly to his, but were gone quicker than the light on a birthday candle.

"Trent?"

He was staring down at the keys now. "I didn't mean to do it, Wes."

"Do what?"

"I'm sorry."

He pulled him closer still… Pressure, touch, they all help anxiety… "Sorry for what?"

Trent raised a finger, licked it, and rubbed it over a key. "I bled on the piano."

"You… what?"

Trent pulled his arm closer with a hiss of pain, and Wes drew in a similar breath as the realisation hit him. Trent had short sleeves on, but with his wrists aimed down towards the floor…

He reached out, taking his hand and slowly rolling it over, trying to assess the damage.

"I'm sorry, Wes. I don't know when it happened. I don't know why I did it."

Wes almost sighed in relief as he finally caught sight of Trent's forearm. There was a long series of angry gashes, blood gathering at the edges like rubies… but they were shallow. Probably painful, definitely going to need some cleaning, but they'd knit and heal by themselves.

"I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't." He slid his arm back from Trent's, to bring it around his body, pulling him into a side-hug. "It happens, and I don't blame you. But… come upstairs with me for a minute? We'll take care of your arm, and then go for coffee. Is… does that sound alright?"

Trent bit his lip but nodded, and this time Wes did finally let out the air he'd trapped in the bell jar of his chest. They stood up in silence, Wes throwing his blazer over the younger boy's shoulders and leading him out the room.

They made it back to the room without any interruption – a little surprising considering it was 5pm on a Friday – but Wes decided not to question it. Bathing in the familiarity, Trent sat himself down on the bed without any prompting needed, and Wes busied himself as he fetched out some gauze and saline before kneeling down in front of his friend.

"You're not mad me?"

He glanced up from his gloves. "Why would I be mad?"

"Because I messed up." Trent sniffed, his voice shaking at the confession.

"Trent…" He picked up his arm, holding his hand down a little as he swabbed at the cuts… and he squeezed back, initially in reaction to the contact, but then it was held, just a little looser… He needed the touch, the skin against skin, even from as small an area as a palm and fingers. "I… understand perhaps a little better than you give me credit for."

"It's not you!" Trent sniffed again, hand flying to his cheeks. "I just… I screwed up. I shouldn't have done it. And just…"

He squeezed a little tighter. "It's okay, Trent. We all slip up. Those that seem the strongest often fall the hardest."

"But…"

"No, no buts." Wes forced his eyes downwards, away, looking around for some Savlon cream… He couldn't, even now, bring himself to meet anyone's eyes. "What if, hypothetically, I were to, say, burn myself… would you blame me?"

"No…"

"Would you judge me for it? Would you consider it my fault, or a flaw on my part?"

"No, of course not!"

He let out a breath of air, uncapping the cream before looking back into Trent's eyes… hoping that his betrayed no more of his secrets than his words would allow… though they were just met with shock, some internal argument he played no role in. "So, why are you any different?"

"Because I should know better!" Trent snarled, and Wes dropped his arm. But he quickly grimaced, eyes dropping from an emerald green (and when they'd changed, Wes wasn't sure) to adopt just a tiny bit more light. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean… Can we talk about something else?"

"No matter, no matter." Wes' hand felt itself reaching for the scar on his leg, purely subconsciously, but he was able to pull it off as shifting his weight and rebalancing on his feet. He drew his focus back to Trent's arm, dotting the antiseptic around the wounds and starting to smooth it over. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Not my screw ups!" Trent flinched as Wes' fingers played near a deeper cut, and he offered a hasty apology in return. "Um… How's your job going?"

"My job?" Wes grinned, and he could feel a little weight lift off the other boy too. "It's wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I'm so lucky to have it."

"What do you do, exactly? I've heard terms thrown around but I'm not actually sure what it means."

Wes chuckled. "I'm a disability support worker… So, because of school, I do lots of residential work. Cooking and cleaning and helping people shower and eat and change and stuff."

Trent gave a tiny smile – if he weren't looking for it, he would have missed it – but it helped settle Wes a little too. He rattled on a little, telling a few stories from his job – like how at his last shift a woman had pulled him into a hug and refused to let him go – as he finally pulled out a range of band aids and began to dress Trent's arm.

It was… strange. Trent was so puzzling. He wasn't closed off, like most of the guys Wes knew that had similar issues. Perhaps it was just how tired the kid was getting of fighting constantly… But he struggled to see what boundaries he had… He needed something. Not just for someone there… He needed someone to help him, to be proud of his flaws… to find other ways of expressing that stress, that self-hatred…

But, how could he get Trent to trust him? That was the most important thing. Until then, Wes would just remain a friend with open arms.

He was… calmer now. But Wes could see him tick-tick-ticking away, so unstable… It was just a matter of time and pressure. And Wes didn't want to know what was going to happen when he finally lost control…

"Here we go." Wes rubbed the back of Trent's forearm. "Better?"

"Almost like new." And another wavery smile. "Thank you."

"Any time, man. I'm always around."

Trent's lip was quivering… but rather than burst into tears, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Wes and burying his head down into his neck.

And Wes just held him back, kept him stable. Through the shaking shoulders and heaving chest. Through the sniffs and gasps of a broken spirit fighting so hard to come out… And the squeezing, so tight, so desperate, like one might clutch a buoy when thrown out to sea.

But even still, Trent couldn't let go… couldn't release those tears. Perhaps it was too painful, or maybe it was just this fear to lose control, to be that vulnerable… He wasn't sure.

"Hey, come on." They finally pulled apart, though Wes kept his hands on his shoulders. "You want to get out of here?"

Trent nodded. "Coffee. I'll be damned if I let that bastard take _that_ away from me."

Wes grinned… before yawning. Dammit. "Sorry. You wanna drive?"

"I don't have my licence."

"No, but I do." _This could work out nicely… and it'd be safer if our driver isn't out of his mind with fatigue._ "You ever driven stick shift before?"

"I don't have a _permit_."

"Ah." Wes closed his eyes. _That changes things_…

"I used to drive back home… And I'm tall enough to pass for nearly 16…"

Wes cocked an eyebrow. "No. I'll drive." He picked up his keys. "I know a great place, about 10 minutes away." _Down a straight, basically empty road_. "Sound good?"

Trent nodded. "Sounds brilliant. Thank you."

He pulled him in for one final hug. "Of course. I know you'd do the same if the situations were reversed." He shrugged his blazer back on, grabbed Trent's jacket which had somehow managed to work its way into residence in his room, and pulled him back out into the unknown.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi out there!<strong>

**It's almost funny reading back over this… It's written in two separate parts, and I can almost see where I broke it… I started writing this in a haze of panic a couple of nights ago – I double-bolused for dinner, so I was dropping really rapidly and ended up having more sugar than in Wes' heart… And also, because, the day after, I had an appointment with my GP for a mental health assessment. So Trent just… let me get a little bit of that nervous energy out (and kept me awake!)**

**And then the rest was written after my appointment. I'm starting to take SSRI's – so it's going to be really interesting to see how they shape particularly this story – and I'm going to see a psychologist as well. So, a big step. And it'll take time… but we'll get there.**

**I know what I want to happen next. I know what issues I want to resurface. I know what's going to happen. And, I have a week's break for uni. So I'll be working my butt off, but I do want to get the rest of the arc done at least, before I'm thrown back in.**

**But I hope this is okay in the meantime.**

**Also, as always… If I've triggered you in any way, or if you ever need someone to talk to – I am always around. Even if I'm not posting. You can PM me on here, you can hit up my Ask on Tumblr… There are phone lines… There is always support around for you. You are never truly alone, so please, don't let yourself feel that way.**

**As for stuff in my life… um… Well, there's all that business going on. There's Between Friends, which is updated once a week. And then there's uni – hooray for T cell activation, HIV and microbiomes! And work. And, yes. That is it.**

**I am **_**so**_** interesting…**

**So, thank you again to everyone that has read, reviewed, followed, etc. Shout outs to Carbon65, PenMagic and Eraman!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want me to be cursed forevermore with missed and delayed trains? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	8. If This Is Redemption

"Trent."

He glanced up once again from a steaming mug – though this one distinctly less malevolent than the one earlier that afternoon – into dark chocolate eyes.

"You want to tell me what's playing on your mind?"

His eyes fell back down, from his bandaged arm, stinging slightly and resting on the table, across to his fingers, to the other hand wrapped around the coffee… It was funny, the way the mist rose above the mug, swirling around and up… It always reached up, but it got too thin and disappeared by sight. And so fragile too, being blown about just by his breath, and Wes' opposite him, and the fan overhead circling the wind and the whispers…

He wasn't like the steam though…

"You want me to tell you my life story? Or my thoughts?" Trent still couldn't bring his attention up for a prolonged period… he was too afraid of what he might reveal. Too afraid of seeing only the worry and the sympathy and the fear… and judgement. "Because all I can think of right this very second is how I'm amazed you're getting by on tea alone and why you haven't tried committing me yet."

Wes shook his head, leaning back against the leather couch. "Tea's enough caffeine to keep me awake, but let me sleep later. And… your trust is worth a lot to me, Trent, because I know how precious a gift that is to receive. I… know how important people can be. And, I figure, when you're ready to talk, you will. Though…" He sighed, hand falling against his thigh before drawing back with more force than seemed necessary… maybe Trent was reading too much into it… "I want you to feel you can trust me. Or trust someone. That you can come to us, at any time, and let us distract you."

"Distract me?"

Wes turned his head to the side. "From… whatever it is. Triggers, horrible thoughts and emotions, compulsions… anything."

"I'm not suicidal."

"Did I say you were?" Wes' tone was still light, friendly. "You've no idea how glad I am to hear that. But, Trent… harming yourself still… isn't a good idea."

He rolled his eyes… He had no other way of responding. "You think I don't know that?"

"I think…" Wes bit his lip, pushing his sleeves up and running a hand through his hair. "I think you know that, but I don't think you're… fully aware of it all. Which is to be expected – you are young, and stressed, and I'm imagining for you this is a very one-sided conversation… you haven't been over my side of the couch."

"And you've been over mine?"

And down went the hand to the thigh as Wes straightened up, eyes blazing. "I'm not some miracle healer," he snapped. "I've had to learn my empathy, and it was a pretty damn hard lesson."

Well, that was interesting… Trent didn't think he'd ever seen the older boy lose control like that before… if it could be called that. It seemed more frustration than anything else, but for Wes to actually bite…

"Sorry." The fire had died down again, the lip once again catching itself in his teeth. "I'm… tired. And I'm not known for having the coolest temper… especially not when it's so close to home. But, I shouldn't have snapped. It's fair enough for you to… ask questions."

"No, I understand." Trent was tired of fighting. Fighting himself, fighting his blood… But Wes had shrunk himself down again, leaving this empty puzzle. He leant across, patting his knee, not sure if anything further would be appreciated. "Can I help?"

"I'm meant to be here for _you_," Wes said. "I appreciate it, and, sure, maybe one day you'll catch me venting. But you've got enough on your plate already for today."

"I like listening though," Trent replied, voice softening. "I don't know if I can explain any more than you already know… but no one is there to listen to you. No one is there to help you… and that's why you're burning out, isn't it?"

Wes leant back, a shadow of a smile painting over his eyes in watercolours. But the usual façade Wes kept – the tall, strong, unyielding – was tripping over in the storm… the sturdiest trees are the first to fall.

"You're allowed to be human too, you know," he continued, just as soft… but that fire from before, that spur of confidence – it was starting to drop away. Wes clearly wasn't comfortable enough yet to talk – supposedly he felt he couldn't fall from the clouds he walked on until he actually looked down – and he didn't want to dump any more on his friend either.

"Thank you," Wes whispered, eyes looking down, fingers tracing over his pant leg.

And there they sat, amongst the coffee thickening the air. Just in silence, just with each other's company. It wasn't awkward. It was them and their own thoughts.

But for once, they knew they weren't alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi out there!<strong>

**Okay. So. Again, apologies for the wait. It's... uni, I suppose. I'm in my final year... and I'm desperate to get into Honours, and have 2 semesters to make that happen. Meaning that I can't afford to write as often as I could before... I'm not abandoning these completely, but I can't promise any sort of regularity to my updates until I'm on break - which isn't til June. But, I'm nearly there!**

**I wrote this at work the other night... after an absolutely insane day where I had to drive out to a friend and calm him down, when I was already fairly stressed... and I was so utterly worn out at the end, I started to really feel like Wes. Which spawned this, I suppose... And, also, because the two went out and just sat there and did not want to have a proper conversation... so we got this :p**

**As always, if you guys ever need to talk, I'm always around. Hit up my Ask on Tumblr, PM me here... anything. You guys are never truly alone :-)**

**Now I have to run... I'm off to an Easter Egg hunt and dinner with friends tonight! Woohoo! And I have to pick up some of my friends. So yes.**

**Also, for anyone interested, I wrote myself a Supernatural fic... I love Destiel a little too much, methinks, but I think it's kinda cute :-)**

**Thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, etc! Shout outs to PenMagic, Eraman and animelover5000!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my car to be picked up by a tornado-strength wind and send me off to Oz? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	9. The Same Old Stories

He glanced over at the spare bed in his room, where Trent was playing with his hands, waiting. It had been such a… strange evening. There was something about the younger kid… something so old. It reminded him a little of himself, actually, which was pretty scary when he really thought about it. Something about that ability to look at someone and know their soul…

"So, can I get you anything? Tea or hot chocolate or blankets or anything?"

Trent shook his head. "You can go to bed. You're worse than I am, Wes."

"You're that tired, huh?"

"No, but you are," Trent grinned as he fought back a yawn. Damn kid.

"Alright then. No homework tonight. Just bed." He switched on his lamp and off the overhead light before finally shrugging out of his track pants and into an old pair of pyjamas.

He _was_ tired though. And that must have been how he slipped up… He wasn't too sure how it happened. He didn't forget Trent was in the room, and he definitely couldn't have forgotten about baring his skin… but somehow scars and Trent and everything just didn't catch up in his mind, and he fell into bed, the light still on.

But Trent was Trent. "Wes…" He bit his lip, his eyes narrowed a little. "Can I ask… what happened to your leg?"

He couldn't help but inhale deeply, sharply. He didn't want to lie, if he could avoid it… "Burn scar," he said, eyes flickering ever so briefly to the shock in Trent's.

"Your entire thigh?" Trent's frown deepened. "Nasty… Must have hurt."

He cracked a tiny smile, almost like a knee-jerk. "Put me off beans and toast for life."

"That's a bummer," Trent said, mimicking the Irish accent. Well, shit. There goes that whole façade.

Wes rolled over onto his back, a hand rubbing over his leg, over the deformed, unfeeling skin. "When I was… around your age," he said quietly, voice shaking a little, "I… had a lot of trouble with everything… It's why I'm older than everyone now. I used to get night terrors… I was terrified to sleep." _Why am I admitting this?_ "One night, after a… long week… I was in the common room, warming up some milk on the stove. But I was so tired, I passed out while the pan was still in my hand, and it came down with me. I was found eventually by someone, but my clothes had basically molded to my skin at that point. They did an amazing job… but the damage was done, and I'm left with what you saw."

There was a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped. But Trent only smiled, that sad, empathetic one they both knew so well. "I'm sorry, Wes."

"No, no harm done," he said, sitting up to properly hug his companion.

"Thanks for trusting me with that."

His gut squirmed. "You're a good kid, you know? But… let's talk about something happier," he said, as Trent made his way back to his own bed. But Wes couldn't help feel uncomfortable… He hadn't lied… but he still hadn't told the complete truth, and, as he began to tell happier stories, stories about his job, he couldn't help the premonition that this was going to come straight back and bite him on the leg… and much sooner than he would otherwise have liked…

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, I've been sitting on this, and I know it's a little out, but it completes the arc, so I want to get this out and then I can continue when I find time :-)<strong>

**Thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, favourites, all that jazz! Shout-outs to Eraman, PenMagic and Carbon65!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my computer to be permanently locked on Sticky Keys (what even is the point of that thing?)? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


End file.
